


The solitary tales of beaver and sheep

by finstocksimaginaryfriend



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Canon Divergence, Canonical Character Death, M/M, Mentions of other characters - Freeform, POV Third Person, Present Tense, Recreational Drug Use, Underage Drinking, mentions of past substance abuse, pre series 3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-14
Updated: 2013-11-14
Packaged: 2018-01-01 14:18:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1044940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/finstocksimaginaryfriend/pseuds/finstocksimaginaryfriend
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The one wherein Stiles decides if they can’t get drunk they may as well get high.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The solitary tales of beaver and sheep

**Author's Note:**

> written before series 3 came out so diverges from canon from there  
> first paragraph influenced by the song 'a daydream away' by ALT as it came onto shuffle when i began to write this  
> both stiles and derek are high for pretty much the entirety of this but nothing overtly sexual happens so it is not tagged dub-con  
> written semi like a stream of consciousness in places

And it’s weird. It’s so fucking weird. Sure, he’s seen a shadow of it before. Heck, he’s even dreamt about it a number of times. Stiles just never thought it would actually come to pass; never thought it would be sincere. But here he is, sitting on the rotting, dirty floor of one Derek Hale’s kitchen on a Friday afternoon across from said Sourwolf _who’s smiling._ Not smirking or even a little upturn of the lips kind of thing – he’s full out grinning like a fool.

He’d make a comment. Of course he would. Stilinski’s are not the kind of men that let these sorts of opportunities slip through their fingers. In all his seventeen years Stiles has never let an opportunity like this get away from him – the amount of jokes and snarky comments he could be making. But the thing is, _the thing is_ , he’s stuck biting down on the heel of his hand as gasped laughter racks through his body and he’s sure he’d have fallen over if only the crappy fridge they’d dragged in wasn’t supporting his back. So yeah, the barrage of sassy quips is going to have to be left unsaid. Besides, he wouldn’t want to wreck this moment.

* * *

Here’s the situation, plain and simple: Erica’s gone. For good. Not coming back. Not ever.

Stiles knows from experience that having lost doesn’t make it any easier to lose. Fuck, it makes it harder if anything. Because it’s just one more name to say farewell to forever; just one closer to alone. See he’s lost a lot, but not all that much comparatively when standing beside Derek. Derek Hale who lost the entirety of his first pack and is now, slowly, losing his second. And he knows, because he just knows these kinds of things, that the only way to make it any less painful is to forget, if only for a moment. So sometimes Stiles steals a bottle of his dads Jack and just drinks until the memories crumble and the noises around him are thrumming in his head so loudly he can’t even conceive the concept of loneliness. Problem is Derek can’t get drunk. And lord knows it’s all he needs.

So perhaps, even as resident plan-making-extraordinaire, Stiles’ schemes aren’t always particularly _good_ ones. But he’d wager an awful lot that this one is.

Fucking recreational drugs.

As a coppers kid with an uncontrollable thirst for knowledge and not much in the way of restraint he knows a fair deal about the crime scene of lil ole Beacon Hills. Knows every gang they can’t pin evidence on; every ex-prisoner fresh from the iron bars; each and every person let off with a warning ‘just this once’. Well, that might be an exaggeration but he knows a fair few. Accordingly getting his hand on a sample of the good stuff (and at a reduced rate because he’s nothing if not a manipulative little bastard that can play the system and bluff through his teeth, and perhaps the coppers boy part helped somewhat too but he still sold the act) and then all that’s left to do is convince Derek to take a drag.

A task easier than would be expected.

* * *

Stiles wakes at the usual time when his dad screams up the stairs for him to get up for school. Showers, pisses, gets dressed, eats, brushes his teeth, grabs his bag and leaves all as normal - accompanied by the sound of his dad shouting he has a late shift and won’t be back until long after Stiles is in bed. Stiles replies he’ll probably go to Scott’s after school and stay the night anyway.

And he probably will.

If he goes to school.

Which he isn’t planning on doing.

Figures if you’re breaking the rules you should at least go all out. Go hard or go home and all that jazz. So he goes off in the normal direction until veering around and heading out to the preserve, stopping by the side of the road to inform the school he’s taking a sick day – he feels he’s due one after all.

It’s ten by the time Stiles finally rolls up to the preserve, having taken a short detour when he suddenly realised that if this was going to be a twenty-four hour thing they were going to need provisions that surpassed enough drugs. So he stops off at the supermarket and fills a basket with everything sugary he figures he’ll start fancying – Derek can deal with Stiles’ tastes, or, if he really takes offense, hunt himself a deer or something.

* * *

The first sign of the day that Derek is still really not ok is that he isn’t looming in his doorway to great Stiles when he rolls up in his grumbling jeep, vocalising the complaints it can’t communicate because his baby is not an off-road vehicle. Sighing he stuffs his hands into his pockets and makes his way inside. He plans on going straight to find Derek but his bladder has other ideas.

Once relieved (and really a toilette is the next major installation they need to fit because the state of Derek’s bathroom is abysmal) he does a quick scout of the downstairs before slowly making his way up. Clinging to the handrail and testing each step before putting his full weight on it because they really don’t need any new holes and Stiles really doesn’t need any new injuries.

Derek’s lying on the crappy mattress Stiles found in a dump sometime before the last full moon. It’s a poor excuse for comfort but better than the charred one that had still smelt of burning Derek used to use. Plus it’s a double so Isaac and –no, he’s not going to think of her he’ll start stinking of sadness- can jump in, occasionally dragging Boyd behind him. Isaac’s become somewhat attached to physical contact; it’s veering on an obsession really. Derek’s curled on his side in a nest of blankets that Stiles knows for a fact Scott dragged in two days prior since Stiles had lectured him for an extensive period before the teen wolf finally agreed to go check on the Alpha. Naturally he’d demanded a full briefing afterwards too.

Inching his way noisily into the room so as not to startle the werewolf Stiles makes his way to the edge of the mattress and perches there. ‘Not going to tell me I should be at school?’ He asks, fighting every urge he has to whisper and talking normally because he didn’t come here to treat Derek like some fragile porcelain doll.

He’s pretty sure Derek’s muffled reply is: ‘You should be at school,’ so he huffs out a laugh.

‘I have a present for you,’ the answering silence is thrilling, ‘hear me out on this Derek…’ There’s still no reply so he plunges ahead, blurting out: ‘We’re getting high.’

‘We are not getting high, Stiles.’ And if rolling your eyes can be a tone of voice then Derek is utilising it to its full potential.

‘I told you to hear me out!’ He isn’t sure how to go about explaining the flawless qualities of this idea so he plunges right on in with an analogy. ‘I was young when my mum - died. I was still eleven, a horrible age because I was old enough to understand but not old enough to know how to deal with it. And my dad he, he went with her for a while. Disappeared completely and became a man I didn’t know. He was angry all the time and would burst into tears randomly and he just kept drinking. I don’t think he was sober for more than six hours for all of three months after she-she died. I was trying to deal with it all alone. Then one cold night, after I had pushed my dad out of the puddle of his own puke he’d collapsed into, I grabbed a bottle from his alcohol cabinet. I still have no idea what it was but it doesn’t matter. I drank for the first time that night. Alone in the neighbourhood park, sitting on the bench I remembered seeing my mum on when Scott and I were too young to go by ourselves. I drank and drank and drank until I couldn’t think and everything got quite.

‘Passed out right there on the bench, bottle smashed at my feet already drained. One of the young policemen found me in the morning and took me to the hospital where Melissa checked up on me; I was fine, luckily. They had to go collect my dad because he was so far out of it he didn’t wake when they rang the home phone. He started to sober up somewhat after that but I didn’t. I started drinking once a week, then more, until I was going out and getting drunk every other night. Never as bad as that first time but I still drank a worrying amount. Do you know why I did it?’

‘Yes.’

Derek’s now facing him and Stiles has moved so far forward he’s leaning over the older man, eyes cast permanently at his collarbone to try and hide the tears threatening at his eyes, even though he knows Derek can probably smell the salt in the air.

‘Because it numbed the hurt. When nothing else could alcohol was there for me and it was dangerous and stupid and a terrible idea but it worked and it felt so good and I managed to stop the pain for those hours of reprieve. It was the best idea of my life, even in the face of all its flaws and all these years later I still believe that.’

‘I tried, after-after the house. And Laura.’

‘But you can’t get drunk, Derek, do you think…’

‘I could get high?’

‘Yeah, do you think it’s possible? Because I did a lot of research and nothing seems to be saying no.’

‘It would probably work.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Yeah.’

‘So, are we doing this Derek? Because I want to forget and you need a minute to just relax.’

‘Do you have any or are we going to have to go scout the town for some?’

Stiles swallows his laughter and just smiles, fingers wrapping themselves in the bedding so he doesn’t give in to the urge to run his fingers through Derek’s hair, petting in the way he’s learnt werewolves like. ‘I’ve already procured the drugs. I have everything. Snacks, roll-ups, a lighter, a fucking bong because I always wanted to try one of those and enough weed to supply a whole werewolf pack for a handful hours. So get up, shower, change your clothes because dude you smell and then we’ll grab all the snacks and start this party. I don’t have to be back until tomorrow night and we can do anything you want.’

Derek nods but it takes Stiles dragging all the blankets away and wrapping skinny hands around his biceps to get the guy to move towards to bathroom.

* * *

It says a lot about him, he assumes, that Stiles doesn’t find it weird to sit on the counter of the sink rambling about everything that pops into his head while across the room, behind a thin curtain, a werewolf showers. He’s had to deal with shell-shocked Betas after all and they’re not always in a state to wash without having an episode. So he’s used to talking to keep peoples minds off all the crap that fills their lives because, heck, he does it to himself often enough too.

He pointedly makes a show of covering his eyes with his hands when the shower turns off so Derek doesn’t have to feel self-conscious –not that he has anything to be self-conscious of– and to give the impression of submitting. He’s really not sure how Derek would react if Stiles behaved too bravely right now.

* * *

It’s twelve by the time they’re leaning against the breakfast bar in the kitchen and Stiles chucks a packet of crisps –cheese and onion flavour because, and god only knows why, they’re his favourite- at Derek and snags a salt and vinegar pack for himself.

Stiles has dumped his stuffed backpack and the plastic bag of food on the counter and he hops up to sit beside it, swinging his legs while he waits for Derek to say something.

‘So what have you got, Stiles?’

A wicked grin warps his face as he starts pulling things out of his backpack. Mary Poppins’ got nothing on him.

‘…Stiles…how did you afford all this? How’d you get all this? You’re the Sheriffs son who in their right mind would sell this much to you?’

‘I’m a coppers kid Derek, I _can_ play the game. As for money, you helped.’ He shrugs and crams another handful of crisps into his mouth.

‘I don’t remember giving you any money.’

‘Remember that movie night we had planned two weeks ago? Then there was that…what was the big bad that night? Oh right I think that was the night the omega accidentally passed through your territory and the pack went mad and tried to run it out of town before Lydia and I got there and managed to solve everything using our words. Well the movie night was cancelled. It was meant to be at my place since dad was out all night again and you gave me a load of cash to get provisions? Well I was called out by Isaac before I spent any and I never gave it back. So there was that money and then, like, everything I’d saved up. Also I’m good at getting my way so I got a reduced price. Really reduced price.’

‘Sometimes I wonder if you’re too dangerous to be worth your keep.’ Derek grumbles but that’s definitely a twitch in the corner of his mouth signifying his amusement and that’s a fucking leap forwards from the state Stiles found him in.

‘Better have me in the pack than against it.’ Stiles shrugs again as he slides off the counter.

* * *

Stiles can tell Derek’s nervous, but he isn’t going to mention it. He likes his neck nice and whole thank you very much.

They’re sitting across from each other, cross-legged on the floor while Stiles sets the bong up. Hoping his dad doesn’t ever check his internet history because that could be hard to explain. He’s deleted it, of course, but the force can get anything off a hard drive – he should know, he learnt the trick from them.

Derek has purple bags under his eyes and his skin’s almost translucent, the veins a stark contrast. Stiles snaps for him to get them some coffee because this shit is harder to put together than he’d thought it would be. He’s pretty sure Derek knows the coffee’s more for his own sake than Stiles’ given that in actuality Stiles is almost done assembling the contraption. But that doesn’t need vocalising.

Once they’re fully caffeinated they sit down across from each other on the floor, dust dancing in their wake. It feels like some kind of voodoo ritual from a Hollywood film and Stiles is proud of himself for keeping this thought internal only.

At first they cough, the smoke sticking to their throats. It tastes nothing short of vile. Shortly, however, they (first Stiles because he’s the man) start to get the hang of it and Stiles is totally seeing how you could get addicted to the stuff. When it runs smoothly down your throat it taste like stardust.

He’s waxing poetical. Concludes it must be taking effect.

And it’s this that leads to them laughing together on the ground of Derek’s kitchen, high and hysterical.

* * *

He’s not sure when they get outside. He’s not sure how they even get there. One moment their limbs have turned to lead and neither of them wants anything more than to lie sprawled in the kitchen with their feet entwined and then they’re in the woods. In much the same position, practically identical in fact. As if they’ve teleported instead of just moved like mortals.

Stiles is laughing again, questioning if he’s ever stopped since inhaling that first curl of smoke, because they totally just transported themselves without even having to sit up and it’s _awesome_. Derek rolls his head to glare at the younger boy but the effect is ruined as smoke splutters out of his nose and he starts coughing again before rolling across the ground to rest his head on Stiles’ thigh, staring up at the rose-tinted sky.

Fumbling blindly Stiles reaches out for the bong and tries to take another breath only for an embarrassingly meagre amount of smoke lifts from the flume. Frowning Derek reaches up to take it and whimpers, a full out puppy-esque _whine_ , when none of any substance follows his inhalation.

Carting his fingers through Derek’s hair and scratching at the base of his neck Stiles murmurs that it’ll be alright; he’ll roll them a cigarette because it can’t be _that_ hard and then everything will be good again.

Leaning into the touch Derek hums: ‘You should grow your hair out.’

He must have stopped laughing at some point because he definitely just started again, making his fingers shake even more as he tries to roll the thin paper into something of a tube like nature. On the sixth attempt, with sweet smelling, tiny leaves scattered in Derek’s hair, it finally resembles a cigarette and he places it in the older mans mouth, starting on one for himself – which only takes five attempts because he’s a quick learner and not above preening about it.

‘Erica would have loved for us all to get high together.’ He regrets saying her name the moment he does it, as if it’s going to wreck this extended moment of calm between them. Like Derek will close up at the mention of her because they’re not going to see her ever again; she’s never going to get high with them or anything else. But Derek just hums in his lap and he’s gone and done it already so Stiles just carries on with his train of thought.

‘She’d have dragged Boyd and Isaac along – Isaac would probably cave after milling around awkwardly and he’d be such a lightweight it’d be hilarious. Boyd would probably stay on the edge and no one would have noticed he’d been smoking with us until the next morning. Isaac would drunk-call –high-call?- Scott to come join us and he’d totally get hooked and we’d have the wean him off it. Or just leave him. Werewolf – he’d totally be fine. Scott would ring Allison and make a fool of himself and start crying and she’d ring Lydia all worried and in they’d both come with Jackson and Danny in tow and they’d glare all disappointed parents at us. Then they’d totally join in because they wouldn’t want to miss out on the fun. Or perhaps Allison would just storm off in a rage? Never can tell with Allison nowadays.’

‘Don’t think I’d like to deal with the whole pack out of it, someone would definitely end up throwing up on someone’s shoes and they would probably be mine, knowing my luck.’

‘I’d help you.’

‘You’re in no state to help _now_.’

‘Touché. I can still talk though, so I think I’m pretty sober all things considered.’

‘You’ll pass out before you stop speaking; maybe not even then.’

‘I resent that, miracles do happen. For instance you just made a blaringly obvious joke. Sarcasm is _my_ thing, at least the obvious kind, you’re humour is a little darker and quieter and it takes me a few seconds to spot the funny’s.’

‘Just smoke your damn drugs Stiles.’

‘Love it when you get all tough, touches me right where my bathing suit goes’

‘Did you just quote Supernatural?’

Stiles begins to tut and shake his head, tilting it back to watch as stars begin to appear above them. ‘You’re spending too much time with me Derek.’

Again he hums and they fall into a rare quiet, looking up at the stars, and surprising to all involved it’s not Stiles that breaks the peace.

‘My family used to watch the stars. The adults would all do it and every night the stars came out early enough and us kids managed to stay awake we joined in. A few meters away in our own pile. No one knew any of the constellations really, a few of the major ones maybe and everything that looked like a frying pan was decidedly the bear. It was supossed to calm us and make us feel closer to the moon. Peter used to love lying in the kids pile and making up stories about what we saw in their shapes. Laura always complained about it being dumb but would cackle whenever the stories turned gory. They often turned gory.’

Stiles’ hand slips to rest against Derek’s chest as they revert back to silence. Derek because he’s already said a lot and Stiles because for once in his life he’s taking the time to consider the next words that leave his mouth fully. Because he knows that the wrong thing could close Derek off and that most everything he could say will ruin the mood of their night. It’s not exactly like he can revert to sarcasm either, a natural state he often finds himself returning to, for fear of being disrespectful or hurtful. Figuring anything he could possible reply with would make the situation worse, Stiles finally resigns to offer up a similar memory. While he’d rather not talk about his mother he can safely assume Derek finds it hard talking about his family too and really, it’s the least he can do for the guy. So manoeuvring them until he’s curled up against Derek’s side, he takes Derek’s hand and steels himself the way he always has to before mentioning his mother.

‘My mum used to pretend she liked cloud watching. Every morning before school she’d wake me up and drag me outside still in my pyjamas to lie in the dew-wet grass staring at the clouds. Dad used to come out with breakfast, usually plates stacked high with pancakes, but sometimes we’d be healthy and have cereal. We were meant to see shapes but I always got distracted easily and dad had zero imagination and mum would give up after the second try because _they all look like sheep._ We’d just laugh until I was almost running late and then everything would be a rush and I’d tumble into class just as the bell rang, back of my head still wet from the grass. It’s why I began to buzz it: dried quicker.’

‘You still buzz it now.’

‘Well done Sherlock.’

‘Shut up Stiles you know what I mean.’

‘Yeah, well, it’s the small things you miss the most and sometimes it feels good to keep little bits the same.’

‘I still have a tube of Laura’s lipstick in the glove compartment of the Camaro where she left it.’

‘Dude I know, I had to slap Lydia’s hand to stop her from touching it.’ It hadn’t been a pretty argument – she’d blown a fuse about physicality and he’d slammed the breaks to scream at her to stop being such a self-centred; selfish bitch. To which she’d argued back, of course, and he’d ended up kicking her out the car of the side of a road somewhere. Ten minutes later he’d come back for her and neither had apologised until the next day when she came round his and asked whose lipstick he thought it was. But wanting to steer clear of any more talk of the dead Stiles doesn’t tell Derek anything more; instead he points to a cluster of lights in the sky.

‘Those stars look like a beaver.’

‘A _beaver_ , really Stiles?’

He shrugs with a smirk. ‘First thing I could think of, sorry.’

‘Yeah, well, that cloud looks like a sheep.’

Shoving Derek away from him the bubbly sensation of laughter starts to fill Stiles’ stomach all over again. He doesn’t manage to hold it at bay for even thirty seconds before he’s wheezing and jumping to his feet, whacking Derek and giving chase as he flees.

It’s a good half hour later when they collapse together again, Stiles panting from exertion with another roll up already in the making, and Derek lying over his lap.

‘Memories suck, Stiles, you said this would help me forget.’ Derek whines into his thigh, hand wrapped in the material of Stiles’ under-shirt, his top layer having been lost at some point.

‘Yeah, yeah I did Derek. We mustn’t have had enough yet is all, we just need some more. Give me a moment, I almost got it…’ Stiles replies, his tongue sticking out the corner of his mouth in concentration as he tries again to roll up a cigarette. Once more sprinkling little leaves in Derek’s hair and cheering in victory when it finally resembles the desired cylinder.

* * *

Fuck, it’s freezing, he knows its freezing and he should be cold; should be shivering, but he just isn’t. Stiles can feel all this extra energy vibrating under his skin and it’s kind of like when he forgets to take his adderall but at the same time nothing like it at all. His head is buzzing, running a hundred miles an hour and filled with static and this strange, tinkling growl-like sound. Stiles is realising that he probably should have checked the effects of mixing recreational drugs with adderall but can’t find it in himself to care. Becoming aware that the growly, high pitched wheezing is coming from Derek he collapses to sit on the ground because Derek Hale, resident grumpy-pants, is actually laughing. It’s a good look for him, body finally loose and head thrown back in a way that’s a lot more Stiles than it is Derek, but Derek manages to make look domineering and graceful where Stiles only manages to look like the awkward, confused teen with control issues he is. The sound’s just as great, if a little embarrassing, it makes him seem closer to his real age and not some sixty-year-old, bitter veteran of some long ago fought war still plagued by the memories of all they’ve seen.

Derek’s changing between his human and Beta forms, down on all fours and running in circles and Stiles is just grinning like a certified idiot. He can feel himself swaying back and forth and he’s starting to feel disturbingly dizzy but can’t bring himself to give two shits about that right now, because Derek is laughing and he’s just so damn high.

Suddenly Derek shifts again. A full shift this time, further than Alpha. Stiles has never seen him –anyone for that matter – shift like this and it knocks the air out of him. Derek’s suddenly a huge, black wolf and not the werewolf-wolf sort either but a full out _real wolf_ -wolf. Stiles had known some werewolves could go the distance –or at least he’d always suspected– he’d seen Laura in wolf form after all, albeit cut in half and dead. He just kind of assumed it was something Derek couldn’t do, perhaps something only for after death. His hand stretches out and catches soft fur before Derek’s back, naked and grinning again, before just as quickly dropping to all fours and snarling as his mouth stretches and his nose turns to a snout and suddenly he’s all animal once more. His tail’s wagging as Stiles begins to laugh. Derek’s rolling in the mud and leaves and yipping, which is probably supossed to come out as howling, up to the moon.

Stiles isn’t sure if it’s real or just another image conjured up from the smoke so he takes another drag.

* * *

It must be two in the morning at the earliest when Derek pulls himself to his feet, slowly peeling his skin away from Stiles’ as if it causes him physical pain and Stiles finds himself whimpering at the cold night air and the sudden lack of the heat radiating from where the werewolf’s body was against his own. Holding out his hand Derek pulls Stiles flush against him and slides behind, herding until they’re entering the house. Derek’s still naked, seemingly completely at ease in his own body but he quickly pulls on a pair of boxers when Stiles points out his lack of clothing before leading them both into a cupboard that miraculously kept its door through the fire. Inside is a cooler he drags out and once they’re under the unobstructed, cool night air once more he opens two beers with his teeth.

And yeah, Stiles can get on board with that idea. Alcohol sounds wonderful right now.

Not for the effect, because what effect could it possible have when they’re already so relaxed, so calm, so pliable from inhaling the smoke? But because this is living; this is life. This is what kids are supossed to do. Drink alcohol they’re not allowed that they found under the sink because parents aren’t as good at hiding it as they’d like to think; stay outside all night because they can’t return home until they sober up; experiment with drugs. And that’s just what they are: children. A whole pack of bloody teenagers with no idea what they’re doing.

And though Derek may legally be an adult it’s becoming pretty obvious he ceased growing when everything burned around him. Adversely Stiles was thrust forwards through life the moment his mum smiled and sent him out the room as the machine counting her heart beats shallowed to a single, unwavering beep. He was pitched forward and then he froze, too old for his body but unable to age in any direction yet as if to make up for the time he lost in tandem with his mother.

Kids shouldn’t know the things they do. Like what someone else’ blood tastes like across your tongue when it erupts from the wounds your bullets just left in them. Or what it’s like to watch the breath leave someone. Shouldn’t have to run for their lives; watch each other fall.

But they barely get a weekend off amidst fighting for their lives, haunted by the newest big, bad, supernatural plight. So if they can’t enjoy their youth at a calm pace like everyone else –like they _should_ – they’ll experience it all at once. Shove as many memories they can into one night and cherish them so they never have to miss out on a thing.

Shouldn’t have more regrets than necessary when you know how to take a life.

* * *

When they’re finally just about sober enough for coherent conversation and not just mud-wars and laughter and snarls they deign to collapse onto their backs in the dew-wet grass. It must only have lasted a night, for all it feels like a lifetime, because as the sun starts creeping over the horizon Stiles swears he’s never seen anything so bright, nor anything so depressing as the stars slowly fading from sight. Derek’s back in human form and seeming to be fully in control of his shift once again. Stiles knows he’s sobering up and fast as it hits him that it probably should have frightened him that he just spent the night running in the woods with an out-of-control Alpha werewolf – but he wasn’t; isn’t. And all it takes is a few more puffs to finish the cigarette they’ve been working on; a couple of seconds to craft and relight a new one. They’ve really become experts in the art of rolling during the course of their night.

He’s still clear of mind, the clarity enough that he finds himself laughing at the situation. He just got high with Derek Hale. Spent all night out with an ex-suspect of felony – among other crimes. Let’s face it, with a murderer. A supernatural creature that can apparently becoming a wolf and bloody _yaps_ at the moon.

It was quite possible the best night of his life.

And now he has an alpha curled up against his side, nose pressed against his neck and snuffling, no, _scenting_ him and it’s hilarious and it’s nice and he doesn’t want it to end. So he takes a few more drags before wrapping a hand in Derek’s ridiculously soft, tousled hair that’s decorated with leaves and twigs and tugs until the older man leaves his neck empty and cold, pushing the cigarette against his lips with a pleading look. Smirks when the werewolf grins and takes a large drag, twisting up to cage Stiles down and blow the smoke all over his face. Stiles retaliates but smearing mud down that stubbled chin and twitching with laughter until Derek flops back beside him with a huff.

‘I didn’t know you could do that, the wolf thing that is.’ Stiles murmurs, his lips closing around the cigarette again.

‘Never tried,’ Derek whispers back before flipping himself over until he’s leaning over Stiles again, breathing in the puff of smoke that leaves his mouth and huffing it back out with a laugh at the face Stiles is sure he must be making.

‘Why not?’

If Derek wasn’t a werewolf he would have missed it, even with their close proximity; he draws up a little and before he can stop himself replies: ‘Scared.’ Stiles urges him on with a quiet hum and lets his arm fall out beside his body, carefully holding the roll-up off the ground and brushing the fingers of his other hand against Derek’s arm. ‘Scared it wouldn’t work; scared I’d turn into something hideous.’

‘More hideous than your Alpha form? Because sorry to break it to you Derek, but that thing couldn’t find a place in vogue even with a make-over.’ He laughs and, still smiling, returns to hushed tones. ‘You’re not scared now.’

It should be a question, Derek knows the young human boy should be questioning because Derek is the Alpha and in charge. The statement is too assured and controlled for someone that should be submissive; he’s trapped under a larger body for crying out loud. He takes Stiles’ hand and leaves the spliff leaning against his lips when he replies. ‘There are other things to be frightened of out here.’ He closes his eyes as he inhales if only to stop himself staring at Stiles’ mouth.

‘Seems to be one of your default emotions: fear.’

He should growl, he’s not weak like that, he’s not, and the human, the _child_ , is making him out as vulnerable and he’s not, _he’s not_. ‘Only around you,’ he finds himself smirking before he can stop it and takes another puff to choke the embarrassment.

He only puts their mouths together so Stiles can share the drugs smoke. Honest.

**Author's Note:**

> unbeta'd so please point out mistakes  
> not actually sure i like this anymore but hey it's out there now so fuck it all  
> [Tumblr](http://finstocksimaginaryfriend.tumblr.com/)


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